It was his minute of revelation. So that was what the camp thought! The wife of Hardin—Hardin! Why, he’d been only polite to her—they were old friends. What had he said to call down this sudden scorn? “Dancing—again—” Had he been all kinds of an ass?
“My turn, Miss Innes!” demanded MacLean, Jr.
“Oh, yes,” she cried, relief in her tone.
Rickard did not claim his dance with Mrs. Hardin. He stood where the girl had left him, thinking. A few minutes later, Gerty swept by in the arms of Breck. Her light laughter, the laughter that had made the Lawrence table endurable, came to him in his unseen corner. Later, came Innes with Junior; the two, thinking themselves unseen, romping through a two-step like two young children. He was never shown that side of her. Gay as a young kitten, chatting merrily with MacLean! Should her eyes discover him, she would be again the haughty young woman!
He’d gone out of his way to be polite to the wife of Hardin. What did he care what they thought? He’d finish his job, and get out.
The sound of oars came to him; the splashing of waves against the dredge. He leaned over. A boat was tying by the ladder.
“Hi, below!” called Rickard.
“Come for Mr. Crothers,” the voice from the shadows answered. “He told me to come for him at ten o’clock.”
“Hold on!” Rickard was clambering over the side. “I’m Rickard. I’ve got to get back to camp. You can come again for Crothers.”
A minute later, he was being rowed back to camp.